A Brick in the Rough
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl AU. Oneshot. They say a dog is man's best friend. Daryl finds out that it's true, even if things aren't exactly as he thought they would be.


**AN: Here we go. This "scene" came from the Tumblr prompt that wanted Carol and Daryl to meet on the same park bench.**

 **As always, I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl Dixon considered himself to be pretty much an "in-shape" kind of guy. At forty five, he was doing a hell of a lot better than most of the men that he worked with who were at least ten years younger than he was. He could still do manual labor for twelve hours a day, even in the hot Georgia summer, without half the complaints of the others.

But after his forty minute run trying to catch the damn stupid dog two days before? Daryl was feeling a little less confident about his physical abilities.

One thing he did know, though, was that he was a smart person. He was too damn smart to put himself in the same situation again. So rather than turn the mutt out to run in the open, willy nilly and wherever he pleased, Daryl gathered him up in the truck and drove him over to the place in town that advertised itself as being a dog park. If nothing else? The place was fenced in and the animal could run himself ragged before Daryl had to find him and take him home again.

The dog nearly choked himself to death on the short trip from the truck to the fence. Daryl flipped up the lock on the main gate and let himself and the dog in. When he took the leash from the dog, it took off just like it had two days earlier. But this time? Instead of streaking after the damn thing in his boxer shorts, Daryl was able to just smile at the goofy looking animal as it galloped away and start looking for somewhere to wait for it to come back, tongue hanging out, ready to give being "a good boy" another chance.

The dog park, at this hour, was fairly empty. It was lunchtime for most working people. From the looks of it? Most working people didn't bother to take their animals out during that hour. They probably ate lunch. Daryl would have too, but the truth of the matter was that he was afraid that if he didn't let the animal run some when he had the time, he might not have a home to come back to.

He wasn't averse to dogs. He liked them. But this dog? He was something Daryl hadn't quite bargained for. Brick was aptly named because he was just about as smart as his namesake.

Daryl sauntered through the decently sized "park" and saw a bench in a shady place under some trees. It was just beyond an inner fence that ran around a little duck pond. He figured that only brave people took their dogs in there. Brick would probably drown himself if he was allowed in that area.

There was a woman sitting on the bench, but Daryl didn't figure she'd mind him sitting too. She was petite and didn't require all that much sitting room. Even though he might smell a little, from having put in half a day's work, Daryl figured he could sit all the way to the other end of the bench and stay somewhat downwind of her.

As Daryl approached the bench, the woman looked up at him. She offered him something of a smile, though not a very enthusiastic one, and he nodded his head quickly in greeting before he sat. He kept all the way to his side of the bench so as to not disturb her and searched out the park to find the drooling, loping idiot that was now, apparently, his best friend.

After seeing that Brick, running about with his own damn theme song playing in his goofy ass brain, was still alive and well, Daryl glanced back the woman.

She'd been smart. She was well-dressed, so she was probably on a lunch break too, and she'd brought food with her. Daryl's stomach growled a little, scolding him for not remembering something so simple in his scramble to get home and get the dog, while she sat and calmly ate a sandwich while staring off at nothing.

Now he understood why Brick stared at him like he did when he was eating.

To distract himself, Daryl tried to pick out which of the handful of dogs in the fenced in area might belong to the woman. She was pretty, petite, and well put together. She looked to be, if he had to guess, somewhere around Daryl's age. Her hair was much more silver than his—though his beard was doing a good job of losing all color lately—but her face suggested that she might be even younger than him.

She would be the kind of person, he decided, who had something of a prancing, perfectly coiffed poodle. At least, if not a poodle, something similar.

It didn't take him long to pick out the light tan dog, almost the same color as Brick, that had obviously been shaved and was wearing what appeared to be ribbons. That had to be the dog. The woman sitting next to him—now slowly and delicately eating potato chips out of a bag, barely touching each chip with her fingertips—had to be the kind of woman that owned the well-groomed and accessorized dog.

Brick was now actively trying to piss on everything. Daryl just hoped that the damn dog didn't decide to do something terrible like piss on Fluffy over there. Or worse, try to hump the dog. Brick may very well have a thing for bows—Daryl didn't know. He hadn't had him long enough. And Brick hadn't been without his nuts long enough to realize that they were gone and the life he'd known before was a thing of the past.

The woman was peeling an orange now. Daryl smelled it before he ever looked over and saw it. Her thin fingers, with well-manicured nails, worked at the skin on the orange.

Daryl swallowed and looked away. At forty five years old, sitting on a public park bench, he felt himself start to get aroused at what he'd seen—some woman he didn't even know carefully peeling an orange. The worst part was that he honestly wasn't sure if he was more turned on by the orange at this moment, given the fact that he was suddenly feeling hungrier than he remembered ever feeling before, or if it was by the woman's hands.

Neither, he decided, was a suitable reason for the reaction that he was having.

But it didn't take him long to distract himself and get some control of the situation. Using a few images, saved up in his memory for just such an occasion, of unfortunate sights he'd encountered, gave Daryl the ability to have a mind over matter moment.

He was concentrating so hard, though, that he jumped when he felt something bump against his arm. He turned toward the bump and saw the woman looking at him, the same smile on her face as before.

She looked like she was waiting for him to say something, and Daryl thought for a moment—much to his embarrassment—that she might have some indication of what he'd just been willing away. She bumped his arm again, though, and he looked down at the hands that had stirred him up without explanation. She was offering him half of the orange, held out in her pale palm.

"Nah," he said. "Thanks, but—I ain't gonna take your food."

She smiled a little more sincerely.

"It's half of an orange," she said. "And—I'm full. They're good oranges. I just bought them."

Daryl didn't doubt the quality of the woman's food. She'd made everything she ate—everything she brought to her lips—look delicious. The orange, were he to take it, would probably be the most delicious piece of fruit he'd ever had.

"Here," she said. "Take it. I really don't want the whole thing. There are some chips left too? I always thing I want them, but I really just want a taste. Then they end up going to waste or I have to give them to Barney."

Daryl raised an eyebrow at her, but he did accept the orange. He peeled off a slice of it and put it in his mouth, chewing it slowly. She moved and picked up the half-eaten chip bag. She pushed it toward him before she tasted her own orange slices.

They were good oranges. And Daryl thanked her quickly for the offer of the oranges and the chips.

"Don't mention it," the woman said. "I'm Carol. I come here pretty much every day at lunch time. I used to forget to bring lunch too."

Daryl chuckled.

"Daryl," he said. "I was in such a damn hurry to get Brick out here—forgot that I gotta eat."

Carol smiled at him and he returned the gesture entirely this time. He might've imagined it, but he thought that when she shifted her weight on the bench she slid a little closer to him.

The long, thin fingers that he'd been admiring before were bare. There were no rings to be seen. There was nothing there that even suggested she might have slipped one off to keep it from getting stick from the orange juice. Daryl watched her as she brought one of them up and sucked at her fingers, cleaning off the juice.

"Barney's your—husband?" Daryl asked.

Carol looked at him, clearly confused, and then she laughed to herself.

"My dog," she said. "Barney's my dog. My husband—he was a dog—but not the good kind like Barney."

Daryl looked at the little dog he'd pegged for hers, ribbons and bows and ridiculousness, and decided that Barney was an odd name for such a dog. But then, he didn't always understand women and their ways of doing things—dog naming included.

He cleared his throat.

"Uh—which one's your dog?" He asked, deciding not to tell her that he was sorry to hear that her husband was a dog of the two legged variety—he'd known a few of those in his life too. They were really a dime a dozen—male and female.

"The Bassett," she said, gesturing off toward a small patch of trees. Nose to the ground and ears dragging alongside, a droopy, tri-colored Basset Hound made small circles in the area before cocking his leg and marking a particularly interesting little tree as belonging to him.

Daryl chuckled to himself and Carol looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

"What?" She asked.

"Nothin'," Daryl said dismissively. Orange done, he wiped his hands on his pants and went for the chips. He looked into the bag and was immediately thankful that the thin woman couldn't eat more than she looked like she could. Normally he wouldn't begrudge a woman a bag of chips, but right now he was happy to see that most she'd left for him. Where she delicately took them, one at a time, out of the bag, he crammed as many in his mouth as would fit at once.

"What?" She repeated. "What's so funny about Barney?"

She sounded offended. She thought it was something against her dog. It looked, to Daryl, to be a fine looking animal. It was nothing against the dog.

"Just weren't the one I picked out for yours," Daryl said.

Carol raised her eyebrows at him.

"What'd you pick out for me?" She asked. Daryl was grateful that she didn't seem to think it was odd that he'd been trying to match her to her dog.

"That there dog," he said, gesturing with fingers covered with chip crumbs. "The one what's got the bows on its ears."

Carol laughed to herself.

"It's cute," she cooed. "No. That's not my dog, though. Why would you think it is?"

Daryl felt his cheeks burn hot when she looked at him, true interest in her expression, and he shook his head.

"Don't matter," he said. "I was wrong. An' Barney there? He's a fine lookin' hound."

She didn't press him and he was relieved. He wasn't as gun shy with women as he had been, when he was younger, but he still wasn't prepared to tell one that he had just met—and one he already liked this much—that he'd picked the dog out for her because it was prettied up and she was pretty, so the two just seemed to go together.

"Let me guess," she said. "Your dog is..."

She looked around. Daryl followed her gaze as her head turned from side to side. He found Brick, bounding around after what he thought might be a grasshopper, and then he looked at one of the more respectable looking dogs—a Boxer. That was what she'd pick for him.

"That yellow one," she said. "The lab or—retriever? The..."

Carol stopped and gestured. She gestured away from the Boxer and right at the bumbling idiot that would ride shotgun back to Daryl's home.

"Don't try to say what the hell he is," Daryl said. "Because you ain't never gonna guess. Don't nobody know. He's dumb. He ain't got no manners. He's messy. And he snores. It's damn near like having my brother back at home. And, just like my brother? He's of questionable damn parentage."

Carol laughed heartily at that, even though—at least as far as Daryl knew—she'd never met Merle Dixon.

"Awwww," Carol cooed again, using the same tone of voice for Brick as she had for the bow-eared dog. It sounded out of place for Brick. "He's cute. He's a big puppy. He's just a puppy, isn't he?"

Daryl sighed.

"I sure hope so," he said. "I'd hate to know he ain't gonna grow out of this and that he ain't never gonna catch up with his feet."

"You haven't had him long?" Carol asked.

Daryl hummed in the negative, crumpled up the empty chip bag in his hand, and shook his head.

"Got him four days ago," Daryl said. "Went down to the pound. Figured I'd get some kinda—I don't know what I thought I'd get. Didn't think I'd get that."

"Why then?" Carol asked. "Why that one?"

Daryl chuckled to himself and shook his head. With a little prompting, though, he answered her.

"Because," he said. "The damn thing was so happy to see me."

"That's it?" Carol asked.

Daryl hummed and nodded.

"So happy to see me—and he didn't even know me," Daryl said. "I just—figured I couldn't walk outta there, you know? Once he'd done set his heart on me...I couldn't let him see me walk outta there with no dog that I picked an' said was better'n him. So—I got Brick. And I hope to hell—he grows outta some of this. Running me ragged."

Carol laughed again.

This time, when she moved closer to Daryl, under the pretense of getting closer to Brick, he knew that she'd done it. He didn't say anything about it, though, and he didn't point it out.

"When I got Barney?" Carol said. Daryl nodded that she should continue her story. "I got him from a rescue. It was actually a rescue for bull dogs. I went there looking for protection. I wanted some big dog that would make me feel—safe. I wanted some big dog that would make me feel—protected. At night and all? But Barney was there and the woman said that she'd gotten him from the pound because she didn't want to leave him there, but she really didn't have room for him. So—I guess—it's kind of like Brick. Barney wasn't what I thought I wanted, but he's turned out to be perfect."

Daryl chuckled to himself.

"He ain't hyper," Daryl said.

"He's getting older," Carol said. She sighed. "He used to be quite the handful. I guess we all change as we get older. He has his moments though."

Daryl snorted.

"Don't we all," he commented. He immediately wished he hadn't said it, but she seemed amused by it and only responded by nodding her head.

After a moment, she got to her feet and started to gather up the trash left behind from her lunch. She was packing it all into a brown paper bag and Daryl stopped a moment when she reached and gently took the wadded up bag out of his hands. Her hands were soft. He thought he probably didn't need that added little bit of information about them.

"I should be going," she said. "I need to do a few things—before I get back to work."

Daryl felt sad to see her go, but he nodded at her.

"Me too," he said. "Gotta go soon. Hell—take me ten minutes to get him back on the leash."

Carol laughed.

"Good luck with that," she said. "I noticed, though, with Barney that he responded well to a schedule. Maybe—developing a schedule with Brick might help?"

Daryl swallowed and nodded thoughtfully.

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe—I'll bring him out here tomorrow."

"It's a good idea," Carol said.

Daryl chewed his lip.

"Maybe—I'll see ya here?" He said.

Carol smiled and nodded.

"I'm here every day it doesn't rain," she said. "Same time, same bench."

"Maybe I'll bring lunch tomorrow?" Daryl offered.

Carol chewed her lip now. She was cute—biting back the upward curve of her lips.

"Maybe I'll bring dessert?" She said.

Daryl nodded.

She offered him a quick goodbye, a gesture that was nothing more than the wiggle of the fingers he'd been looking at a little too closely and Daryl watched as she walked away to throw her trash into the trash can. She stopped, picked up a bottle that someone else had thrown on the ground, and threw it away before she went and hooked the leash on Barney. The dog, happy to see her as though she'd left instead of simply sitting nearby to watch him, jumped at her slightly and then trotted behind her.

Daryl watched her until she got out the gates with the long-eared dog. He thought, but he wasn't sure, that maybe she'd looked back at him.

Finally, he got up, whistled at Brick, and then walked toward the dog when Brick did nothing more than glance in his direction at the sound. Brick took his approach as a game and loped off, so Daryl started after him, getting in a quick after-lunch run before he finally got him leashed again to pull Brick—choking himself the whole way—back toward the gates.

Having a dog like Brick might not be the greatest thing in the world—but it might have its perks. After all, he had Brick to thank for getting him out of the house that day and bringing him to the park. And he'd have Brick to thank when, for the rest of the evening, he was daydreaming about the pretty woman on the park bench he'd be sharing lunch with the next day.

And when he pointed it out to the dog, as soon as he had the asshole in the passenger seat, he could've sworn the animal—goofy grin and all—looked damn near smug.

Brick might not be the smartest dog in the world, but at the moment, Daryl wasn't sure he was quite as dumb as his namesake. After all, he was already doing his job and making Daryl's life a little better.


End file.
